


Winter Winds Blow

by The_Northern_Wolf



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (Haha you wish), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, Anxiety Attacks, Comfort, F/F, Family Reunions, First Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Incest, Nightmares, Romance, Sansrya, Sibling Incest, Sister-Sister Relationship, Sister/Sister Incest, White Walkers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 11:13:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18072359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Northern_Wolf/pseuds/The_Northern_Wolf
Summary: The dead rise in the crypts of Winterfell





	Winter Winds Blow

**Arya**

 

The halls were cold, but that was nothing new for winter. The long season brought with it a bitter chill that nipped at one's skin and clenched tight to their hands and fingers. It was uncomfortable, but oddly familiar. As the snow fell beyond the thatched windows, a wolf stirred and stalked.

Arya Stark was patrolling the halls, the sky dark and listless in nature. There was no comfort from the moon or stars this night, just sullen loops of morose clouds. She should be asleep by all reason, but her time in the House of Black and White had made the task cumbersome; she feared the dark. Having seen nothing for a great long while, she was deft in trying to do the same. Dreams did not come easily, and when they did they were dark and misshapen. So she chose to sleep as little as possible.

It wasn't all that bad; her walks around Winterfell were always nice and natural, how she had done so many times in her girlhood. She would always sneak into Jon or Robb's room and they would talk, or she would go outside into the yards and draw in the dirt. But that was summer, when the sun shone and the light it brought banished all trace of ice or snow melt.

The night was still and silent save a distant cough and the sputtering of the braziers, but Arya couldn't shake a certain feeling. It gave her chills, though not from the cold. It was as if she were being watched, but yes, it was colder than usual. The air was gelid and she could see her puffy breaths. Perhaps she should try and sleep tonight, maybe then she would be warm.

As she was turning around she heard it, a knock. It sounded hollow but forceful and drew her towards it. Her hand found the pommel of Needle, seemingly still warm from all the times she had weilded it before.

She shivered as she reached the foot of the stairs. The crypts.

The very idea of the dead now seemed taboo, but she scolded herself for being silly. The Starks in the crypts were dead, they were not wights. She hoped.

She ascended the stairs wearily. She knew this was a bad idea, even in the dead of night, in a space she had played in so many times before, it felt creepily sacred.

_Knock._

She nearly jumped. When did she get so tense? She took a deep breath, pushing against the rough gilded wood at the base of the stairs. Inside it was only darkness, a thick kind that made her think she was swimming in ink. She waded in slowly, raising a torch. Its warmth was welcome but not nearly enough. It was frigid down there.

The halls were dark and echoed like shrill claps of thunder. She slunk around the bases of the crypts, the paws of the wolf's feat, the sullen faces of the dead. Then there was a loud _clank,_ like metal dropping and clambering. She exhaled and sped up her steps.

The light from the door was not a small sqaure in the distance and made her breath hitch. Not the dark again.. this wasnt..

_Damn it Stark. Youre better than that. You are Arya Stark of Winterfell, and you are not afraid._

She calmed herself just as her foot caught on something. She looked down to see a thin strip of rusted metal. It was grainy and had puffed up and small rise of red specks around it. A sword. She glanced up at crypt where it had sat. Brandon. His face was misshapen and was not carved to the likeness of what he was, though she had never met him. It made her ache for her father, his face, his gentle calloused hands. But he was dead.

She reached to pick up the sword but saw something glimmer on the edge of it. It looked blue, like the sky during dusk, but bright. An orb of floating light. She dared look up. What she saw made her scream.

 

**Sansa**

 

The snow fell swiftly, blown by heavy puffs of wind. It ruffled her hair, splaying it behind her like a wave of fire. But it felt right, like the north. Though the kingdom had not been kind to her as of late, it had been better. She had her family, or at least what was left of it, and they finally had a leg up in the war. So she thought.

When the raven arrived bearing Jon's seal, she expected the worst. But what she had gotten was not that, it was his treason. His betrayal. He had bent the knee to the Targaryen. The Mother of Dragons, the Breaker of Chains. He had thrown away Robb's legacy, all he had fought for. All he had died for. The independence of the North.

She sighed, rubbing her temples Her fingers were dumb because she forgot to put on gloves; she was far too shaken to care. She was distressing, you could say. She knew the north would night take kindly to Jon's choice, and it would fall on her shoulders to fix it. Because she was the Lady of Winterfell, and the north seemed to love her more than her bastard brother. But she didn't want it. She used to yearn for the throne, for the Iron beneath her and the thousand swords at her beckon. But that was a future dreamed in a different time.

There would be no thrones for her. But her choices were limited. She groaned as another splash of cold air hit her cheeks. She finally relented, returning to her chambers. Her hair was wet from the snow fall and made it fall in thick clumps. She must look a mess.

"Brienne!" she called, hoping the Tarth woman was awake.

Indeed she was, though it was not without a grumble and a slight panic. She entered the room quickly; her own chambers were only down the hall, within earshot by her own insistence. Sansa had hated the idea, knowing that if she was allowed to be weak enough to call for someone whenever she had a fright, she would only grow poorer. She needed to face her own fears, but now she needed council, not comfort.

She thought about finding Arya but found herself wrinkling her nose. What good would Arya do? She was always angry at night, her normally composed expressions written in exhaustion and sheer misery. Sansa once opted to share a bed with her little sister, if that would ease her fears. But the young Stark would have none of it, and Sansa couldn't blame her. Though she did miss Arya, even if they had never had the best of relationships. But she wanted her sister, whoever she may be now.

"Is everything alright, M'lady?" Brienne asked, hand on her sword. Gods, did she sleep with that thing?

"Yes," Sansa replied steadily, resting her hands on an oak desk. Even that seemed to rock under her and make her queasy. "Have you heard of Jon's.. actions?"

"Aye, I have M'lady."

Sansa nodded, ruffling the edge of a stack of scrolls. "You are worried about the north, arnt you?" Brienne asked.

Sansa could only nod again. She was worried, but beyond that, afraid. "I am not made to be a queen, Brienne. Nor I am fit for the title. You saw how I handled the Bolton's, I was able to do nothing without Jon and.. Lord Baelish." she paused, remembering how his blood had sprayed like a fountain of wine. It always made her shudder. "But if Jon had indeed bent the knee, how will he expect his men to react? Will they accept their new Queen? Will they turn to me?"

Brienne thought for a moment, relaxing as she realized there was no danger. "That I cannot say for certain, M'lady. But it is true they will seek attonement, Jon's fealty is also their own, and they will not accept it so easily. If he had counseled with them perhaps, but he left and will return with a new commander. They may turn to you, as they have before, but what of it? You will think of something. You did with Little Finger."

Sansa shook her head. "That was Arya. Her plotting. I could never- would never have been able to do that. You know as much."

"I know you were the lady who killed Ramsay Bolton, who turned the tides in the Battle of the Bastards. Who escaped King's Landing and survied through arguably the worst men in all of Westeros. Is that not Queenly? Much more than Cersei to be sure." Brienne seemed sure, her words firm, but Sansa could not see. She could not hear.

She was afraid. Everything she had done had been impulse, or she had help. Dontos the fool, Little Finger, Arya, even Jon. All she did was use what was given to her, and exploit it. She was not brave nor was she willing to do what was needed. She was the weakest Stark, that was known.

Before she could respond there was a scream. It was short and clipped but unmistakable for what it was. Sansa's eyes went wide and so did Brienne's. "M'lady, if you shall excuse me, I shall look into what that was."

Sansa nodded and watched her leave.

But she was shaken.

 

**Arya**

_Eyes.  
_

They were eyes. Big and blue, lifeless save for the flicker of it's pupils. Around it was a thick, tar drenched face. The skin was rotted and hung in loose folds like loops of linen. Arya balked and stumbled backward, nearly tripping over her feet.

A wight. No. Brandon.

He was big and hefty but still held the outline of familiarity. Her Father. They _did_ look alike, fully Stark blooded. He was the north embodied, but not.

She unsheathed needle as Brandon hollowed, hips lips torn and his tongue a swollen and bloated worn in his mouth. Any words she had died in her throat when it lurched toward her, arms reaching, splaying blackened fingers. It gurgled and she swung, hitting it square in the chest.

The torch was dropped in a hurry and she gasped when the lights when out. _Not again. Not again. Gods no._

But she managed to keep her emotions in cheek, burying them deep inside, as far as they would go. She acted using her smell and hearing, which was not difficult. The wight's eyes glowed but shimmering; her target was clear.

She kept her footing still, firm and she attacked, pushing the creature back and back again until it growled and stumbled back. But Needle was not deadly to him; he was immune to all blade except dragonglass and.. Velaryon steal. She gasped.

In the pitch her fingers deftly found the hilt of dragonbone along her hip. She swung it in a wide arc as it slashed across the Stark's face, blinding him. He hissed and spat before erupting in a shower of small crystal like shards.

She recoiled and gasped as they rained down on her, clattering before disappearing to dust. Her breaths was hitched and it took her a moment to realize she was crying. The dark was consuming her like the gaping maw of a dragon's mouth, swallowing her whole.

"I am Arya Stark of Winterfell," she breathed. "And I am not afraid. I am a wolf."

But she was afraid, even more so when she heard the _breaths._ Ragged at first, and then the crunch of heavy stone grading against stone. It was ominous and sent tingles down her spine. But the eyes, there were more. So many more.

She didn't get to think, she just ran. And ran and ran until her legs burned.

The stairwell was dark; she had stolen the only torch. She stumbled and tried to run but only managed to slip against the slick chill. She fell, jarring all her bones and crashing the side of her face into the jagged step. She felt the warmth of slick blood as she stood again, trembling like a windblown leaf.

It was all she could do to keep running.

She heard the snarls and gnashing teeth of the Others down the hall, all of them clambering and tripping over one another. She didn't know how many there were, or how quick they were, she just knew they were _there._

She made the mistake of glancing back.

Her Father.

He was nothing more than a gaggle of bones held together by strands of decaying flesh. But his jaw was slick, though slathered in a layer of tar. His head was dismembered but had been reattached with a cord of wire. His body shook, but his eyes.. they were like a Tully's but not. They were dead, as much as lifeless could get.

A scream ripped past her lips, shredding her throat.

She clutched the dragonbone hilt with a might that turned her knuckles white. But when she swung she felt clumsy and shaky, unable to land. Instead she found herself being raked by the fingers of her Father. His nails acted as sharp claws, tearing into her shoulder.

She gasped though the pain was numbed by the cold. Anger surged within her and she grit her teeth. But her eyes were blurred with tears. She forced herself to blink them away, angling her slash up so that it caught Ned in the jaw, or what was left of it. Her Father hissed and screeched long and low before erupting in a spray of ashen crystals.

They caught her in the face like a rush of glass. She yelped as her eyes were clouded with the small specks of dust, clouding them and making her vision dark. She scratched at her eyes, trying to rub the blur away but to no avail. It felt as if grains of sand had encrusted her eyelids, sticking as only wax could.

She ran, stumbling and crashing into a side wall, the dagger slipping from her gasp. She screamed again, trying, begging for someone to hear. She was weak, she was craven. She was pathetic. She could barley move; her father's face seemed to stare at her, eyes dark and disappointing.

It was only when she felt something grip her ankle that she really broke. She didnt have to look very hard to know who it was. Tiny hands grasped at the frozen air, searching for his direwolf. His Shaggydog. Rickon looked so innocent even now, though he was as horrid as the rest.

She kicked at him and crashed her boot into the side of his face. She felt numb, but she had to keep running.

Suddenly she ran into what she took to be a suit of armor, but it was _warm_ and _moving._ _Breathing._ "M'lady!" the woman gasped, though she was enormous, like a wildling. Brienne of Tarth. "Please," Arya whimpered, unable to get past her tears. Her pain.

She felt a strong, muscled arm wrap around her shoulders before Oathkeeper was drawn with a _shing._ She buried her face as the woman fought, tearing and cutting at all the Others, sending them to splinters. Then there was silence.

Arya's ears rang but she ignored it, sniffling. She felt like a child, like she had never been taken by Yoren, never befriend Gendry and Hotpie; never captured by Sandor Clegane, never visited the House of Black and White. Maybe that was the true Arya Stark of Winterfell, a sniveling child.

"M'lady?" Brienne shook her shoulder, kneeling. Even now she was at a height with Arya. "Are you alright?"

Arya shook her head, unable to formulate a response. It was all wrong. Their faces.. their eyes.. it was all too much.

Brienne seemed to understand, keeping her close as she led the half blind Stark through the halls and away from the corpses, or what was left of them.

 

**Sansa**

 

She was just drifting to sleep, the scream forgotten, when a hard knock sounded at her door. She startled and her eyes widened, but she opened the thick wood anyway. She had slept in somewhat formal attire, a silken dress embroidered and covered with a thick layer of furs around her shoulders and a black cape draping across her back (that she had forgotten to take off).

When the door opened, as expected, she saw Brienne. But huddled close to her torso was Arya. She was crying, her eyes puffy and red, but also bloodshot and crimson. She was shivering violently, whimpering like a stray pup.

Sansa gasped and practically pulled her younger sister into her arms, clutching her tight. "Arya, whats wrong?" she asked softly, Brienne momentarily forgotten. She stroked Arya's matted hair, cold from gods knew what. Was she outside? In this chill? Though Sansa was hardly one to talk.

Arya clutched tight to her, balling her fingers into fists, curling into Sansa as if she were the last beacon of life in a dying world. Sansa sat down on the bed, dragging Arya down with her so that the smaller girl was practically in her lap. Blood dripped down her forehead and stained the furs but Sansa didn't care.

"M'lady," Brienne said.

"Damn formalities right now," Sansa snapped, focusing on running her finger's through Arya's hair. She could feel the girl trembling and shuddering, shaking the entire bed so it seemed. "What happened?" it was a harsh demand, but she was at a loss. She didn't know if she should feel worried or confused, scared or angry. Maybe all of them.

Brienne looked taken aback. "M- She must have been down in the crypts. Then.. well.. the Others, M'lady. They were there, inside the walls. I do not know how they got in or how they managed to get past the guards. The watch is doubled I assure you-"

Sansa cut her off. "The bodies, in the crypts.." she shivered. What had Arya seen? Though she _knew._ She could easily guess at the horrors, at her.. family. Arya was never scared, but she could barley fathom how she herself would feel in the girl's position.

Brienne seemed to understand, growling. "I should have known. I will have all of them burned, with your command, M'lady."

Sansa nodded, breathing deeply and calming herself. Arya was now still save for a small sniffle or whine here and there. "Leave us and see it done. Send for Samwell Tarly."

He was the only maester in Winterfell, gods be damned, but it was said he cured Greyscale so she would trust him. Besides, Arya's wounds were not so dire, surly. Or were they? She hadn't gotten a good look at her sister.

Brienne left and bowed, hurrying down the hall. Her armor clinked noisly, undoubtedly waking the entire castle. "Arya?" Sansa asked, rubbing her sister's shoulder.

Arya stiffened but didn't move. Her head was resting against Sansa's neck, covered by furs and fire. She looked nearly peaceful, young even. But that was far from the case. "Arya, please look at me."

The younger girl stiffly moved. Her eyes were indeed very red, bloodshot and seemed to shimmer with flecks of glass. That was not tears, she recognized that easy enough. But her concern was the fear written in the girl, it was so unbidden and unfamiliar that Sansa's tummy started to coil in knots of dread.

She gingerly reached up and cupped Arya's cheek, causing her to flinch. "Its just me, Arya."

Arya nodded though turned away.

Sansa bit her lip. "Its ok now. They.. they wont hurt you anymore. I promise."

"C-cold," Arya shivered.

Sansa reached around her back and grabbed one of the thick fur pelts that was draped across her bed, wrapping it around Arya's shoulders and pulling her close. Arya still shivered, but with less vigor. Her breaths were strained and she blinked rarely, if at all. "Better?"

Arya nodded.

"What happened? Arya please talk to me," Sansa begged.

"Father.. I," she hiccuped. "I killed him. But it wasnt him. It was so dark.. so cold.. I dont.. I cant-"

"Shh," Sansa said, rubbing Arya's back and hissing her tremble, tracing smooth patterns under the fur. "You didn't kill him. He died long ago.."

"I know but.. he was already dead," Arya murmured. "And he died again. Shattered, like glass. He was a wight, Sansa. His eyes.. they were blue.. like yours. But they were empty. His eyes were always so kind- so gentle. I miss him, gods! But.. I finally saw him again. And he was gone just as quick."

"Arya that was not him-"

"It was him. It was his body, but not his eyes. He was covered in tar.. in rot. Little Rickon too.. Brandon.. All of them. Brienne she- she killed them. Is it not enough for them to have died once?" her voice started to raise to a shout. "Were the gods not happy when Mother's and Robb's throats were cut? Or when Father lost his head? Or when Rickon was shot? Did they not laugh and jest?"

"That was no work of the gods," Sansa tried to say, but she was started to feel less sure. But looked at Arya only made her stomach tighten and her chest erupt in spasms. She wanted to make her feel better, more than anything. But gods she looked so cold, so helpless and weak..

Sansa did the only thing she could think of. It started with her resting her forehead against Arya's, causing the latter's breath to hitch. She gentle brushed away the stray strands of sable hair, rubbing Arya's cheeks softly. She was unsure but also firm- it felt right. Whole. True.

"Arya," she murmured, realizing Arya had gone silent. "You know what Father used to say? You were afraid today, but in truth that is the only time when you can be brave. You _were_ brave, you were a wolf. You fought even when you saw what you did not wish to see, and you fought what you did not wish to kill."

"Wolves are not afraid," Arya replied stubbornly.

"They do not let you see their fear; they hide it behind teeth and claws. But it is there. All animals, even us, fear. They run and they hide, they scream and they cry. But the wolves are different from the rest; they may be afraid but they will fight to the bitter end. Be it fire or ice they dig their claws in and stay, they live for their pack."

"When the lone wolf dies, the pack survives," Arya's voice was a husk of a whisper. "What pack? Mother.. Father.. Rickon.. Robb.. dead. They are all dead. Is Bran even Bran anymore? Who is there?"

"Me," Sansa said quickly, though her words seemed to come from down within her. "They call me the Red Wolf. I am a Stark of Winterfell, and I am a fire in winter, one that will see the dawn. You are too, you are the wind that ignites the flame, coming from the south, though gentle so as not to put it out. That is you Arya. The others may be dead but.. we have each other. That is still a pack, right? What about Jon? Bran still. Davos, Brienne, Samwell, Gilly, the Umbers and Karstarks, Glovers and wildlings. The Crows. All of them, Arya. They are our pack."

Arya sighed and Sansa felt her chest flutter. Gods she hadn't felt this way since.. Joffrey. Or what she thought he was. She had never felt her heartbeat quicken like this, or her stomach start to rustle, her chest start to burn. It was a wave of emotions like a sudden winter storm, cold yet warm. Hot.

"I love you Arya," She said softly.

Arya hid a ghost of a smile on her lips. "I love you too, my Red Wolf."

Sansa felt her own breath hitch, her body acting.. moving.. foreward.. their breaths shared one whole..

"M'lady?" Samwell stood in the doorway.

 

 


End file.
